Blackie Noir . . . Drowning On Dry Land

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Louder, and when
the head of the clipper passed over the mastoid bone behind her ear, it
intensified.

Buzzzzz!

Vibration,
tingling, ever so slight, reaching her jawbone. Making itself felt in her
molars. Clipper head, now passing over the crown of her skull. Buzz, fading
slightly. The first golden locks of her hair dropping, dragging across her
face, feathering over her breast, down to the floor.

Shining, bright,
against the black of an oil stain, one of many, spotting the garage concrete.

The locks falling,
ever faster now, as her husband’s hand became surer, warming to it’s task.
Reluctant task. But one he’d accepted, understanding. Her. Perhaps for the
first time in years, understanding, recognizing her need, powerful, undeniable.
For the first time in years, she caught a glimpse of the man she had married.

Still her hair
fell.

Had she had that much of it? Apparently. Now
clinging to her chest, littering her thighs, blanketing the oily floor, it was
everywhere. Everywhere but on her head.

No more buzz. Rick
had turned off the clippers.

It was done.

Tip of her tongue,
exploring. Finding a stubborn lock, stuck by the tracks of her tears, in the
corner of her mouth. Tongue licking, tasting salt tears, before dislodging the
silken stowaway.

Her crying eyes,
lifting, searching, locking on Shane’s.

Shane’s eyes
leaking too. Red rimmed. From crying. From the chemo.

Chemo.

Almost as
frightening as it’s target. Almost as destructive. Devastating. Ravaging.

Rick, an awed
observer. Seeing something in Lena, something he’d never
noticed before. Perhaps not bothering to look had had something to do with it.
Maybe he’d give it a better shot. Try a little harder.

Lena
and Shane, arm in arm, making their way to the mirror above the utility sink. Lena
slowing her stride to accommodate Shane’s shuffle. Shoulder to shoulder,
checking it out. The new look. Shock. Then, giggles. Finally, laughter. Lena
to Shane.

Damn. We. Look.
Hot.

And they did.

Five years later: Lena,
alone. Rick’s shot hadn’t been much. After the moment had faded, so had his
intentions. Lena handling it. Well.

Monday, February 9, 2015

Last time I took
the shortcut past Johnny P’s house, he shot me in the head.

Lucky for me, his
weapon that day was a B-B gun not the .38 Special he took to carrying in later
years.

Still, it hurt
like hell and, being a head wound, it bled like crazy. The projectile hit me in
the hard bone behind my ear, traveled under the skin, came out near my temple, left
the side of my face a bloody mess.

Johnny didn’t
favor the much coveted Daisy Red Ryder Carbine. No, his weapon of choice was
the super powerful, window shattering, rat (sometimes cat) slaughtering, Daisy
pump. It was his latest tool of terror against the kids (Johnny was about 15, I
was 9) of our neighborhood. Johnny couldn’t catch me on foot, and I’d once
tried to keep him from smacking the shit out of me by whipping on him with a
car antenna (impromptu weapon of choice for the era and area).

Sunday mornings a
hung-over Johnny would take his pump gun and a quart of Rheingold beer, up on
his roof, and wait for targets. Why would I deny myself the opportunity to
taunt / outsmart my favorite asshole? Well, that day I was the asshole and I
got outsmarted.

If he’d lived long enough Johnny probably
would have upgraded his .38 to a .357 mag. But, his psychotic zest for living
on the edge took him to an early terminus on the Bronx-WhitestoneBridge. Johnny went down in a blaze
of gory glory, blown away by a small army of both Queens
and Bronx cops. Far as I know, none of those cops were
armed with B-B guns.

Some of the other
neighborhood kids (toadies / sycophants) held Johnny P. in awe, saw his passing
as a great tragedy. Not me. I wouldn’t kiss his ass when he was alive, nor
would I mourn his passing. When I heard the news? I laughed my ass off.

She’d run her
race. Fought her feeble fight. The finale was a hulking shadow looming at the
end of life’s darkest alley.

She might have
taken that giant step into the void a long time ago, but . . .

But, there was one
thing. One thing alone. The place where she could always find solace. Shelter
from the storm. Peace. Even a modicum of joy.

One thing . . .
her battered and tattered, well thumbed and worn, copy of KISS ME, EVIL. Only within those yellowed and
crumbling pages was there solace to be found. It only took a few pages immersed
amongst its desperate denizens; Nicky Kid, Trina, Trash, Roxi, Moondog, to snap
her out of her malaise, cause her to reassess her situation, realize that
compared to that pack of miscreants she was sitting pretty, living large,
cruising down life’s golden highway in a magenta drop-top Caddy with 22 caret
gold trim. Life was good after all.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Natasha “Natty”
Svetlankova Birdwell hadn’t a fucking clue how much longer she’d have been able
to tread water, keep her head above the filth of the sewer her life had become.
But, now it was resolved. She had Harris.

Harris was Natty’s
ticket out. Out of Rocky’s Rocket Room. Out of Bakersfield.
Out of a life of humiliation and degradation, shaking her ass and humping a
pole, to entertain and titillate a bunch of slack-jawed simpletons. Humping a
different sort of pole in the club’s sleazy back-room “lounges,” to supplement
her ever inadequate income. Natty had expensive tastes, rapacious indulgences.

Harris. Ticket to
ride. Oh, yeah.

Guy was a
congressman? No wonder the country had been brought to its knees. Natty
couldn’t begin to comprehend the dude’s thought process. She’d simply remain
forever grateful for the politico’s lack of cerebral candlepower. His drug
induced brain-fade had prompted the fool to allow her to use her cell phone cam
to record some of their more daring physical experiments. Money in the bank.

Then, as if the
incriminating photos weren’t enough, Harris had gone on a drunken ramble,
describing a ruthless power grabbing scheme involving, lobbying, illegal
funding, pork barrel legislation, and some of the state’s most prominent, and
respected figures. Natty proved an avid listener, amused and gratified to know
that everyone, everyone, had dirty
laundry. Some of it downright filthy.

She lit a
cigarette, paced. Stopped near her door, hefted the two light suitcases she had
packed an hour ago. Hour before that, she’d finished a phone conversation with
Harris. The second of the day. Harris had finally seen the light. Was willing
to meet her demands. First payment to be delivered that afternoon. Well, Natty
was ready. Soon as she had the money, she’d split. Disappear, until it was time
for the next payment.

Not that she was
paranoid, but she wasn’t a fool either. Out of sight, out of harm’s way. One
reason she’d arranged for the payoff to take place in this anonymous little shithole
of a motel room. She’d checked in, using one of the half dozen fake IDs Monte had
provided, hiding behind huge Jackie O shades and a cheap blond wig.

The knock was
hard, startled her. Annoyed, she jerked the door open, said,“Hey, asshole, you don’t have to beat it
down. What took you so long, you stop to print it?”

The heel of the
guy’s hand caught her in the sternum, propelling her backward, through the
small room, into a lowboy dresser. She slammed into the dresser, kept her feet
by placing her hands behind her on its grimy surface.

She didn’t know
who this dude was, but she recognized the look in his eyes as he shut the door
behind him, grinned, said,“Hey, babe.
Name’s Con. They tell me you’ve been a bad girl. Threatening to make problems
for your betters. Sent me over to set you straight.”

Her betters? Fuck
this cretin. Maybe he had “betters,” but Natty? If there was anybody breathing
was better than her, well, they hadn’t crossed her path yet.

Betters? Shit.

She watched him,
big slouchy guy, make his way across the carpet. Eyes glowering with
anticipation, he licked his lips, reached out for her. Con? Didn’t matter.
Coulda been Rick, her uncle, forcing himself on her when she’d been eleven.
Coulda been Micky, her ex, on the night of their honeymoon, when batshit crazy
drunk, he’d busted her jaw, her nose, and caved in three of her ribs. Coulda
been Larry, or Denny, or . . . Didn’t
matter. Same old shit.

But, by this time
there was one difference. The fear was long gone, replaced with a rapacious
desire for payback, fueled by an abuse nurtured streak of mean. She figured it
would serve her well, cuz this swine had more on his mind than smacking her
around, getting his rocks off, in whatever way would appeal to a bottom feeding
freak like him. The fact that he was wearing latex gloves, and had told her his
name, made it obvious: her lesson was meant to be a final one.

Lots of fuckin
luck, Con.

Her hand closed
around the handle of the straight razor secure in the tight weave of her French
braid, flipped it open just as Con’s hand’s found her throat. Her eyes locked
on his as she slashed the back of his hand, watched the lust-gleam fade,
replaced by shock as he pulled his hand back, stared at the flood of gore
pouring from severed veins.

Big geek didn’t
like the sight of his own blood. Tough shit, cuz Natty planned to spill a lot
more of it. She slashed at his throat. He managed to get his shoulder up; her
hand glanced off, went high, the razor missed his throat, opened his cheek from
ear to chin. She saw his teeth, gleaming through the gapping slit, for a split
second before they were obscured by welling blood.

Her own blood was hammering
so hard in her ears, that she didn’t hear Con’s moan when she kicked him in the
balls. As he sank to his knees Natty stepped behind him, grabbed his greasy
hair, yanked his head back, slashed his throat from ear to ear.

Sitting on the bed,
fighting to catch her breath, she watched Con’s final moments among the quick.
Knowing full well their positions might easily have been reversed. If . . . .

If . . . she’d
been a little less decisive, a bit slower to act. Not a problem. She was fast.
Goddamn right. Getting faster every fucking day.

Natty had two
regrets as she stood under the steaming shower, washing the last of Con’s blood
from her body. One: the outfit she’d been wearing was ruined. Two: like it or
not, she was gonna have to call Monte.

Not something she
felt good about, but Harris hadn’t left her a choice. Motherfucker had crossed
her. Tried to have her killed, rather than pay an extortion fee that to him
probably constituted chump change. What a ruthless prick. Stupid too, reneging
on a deal with Natty. Chances were he’d be stupid enough to try again, but
smart enough to send someone a lot more capable than Con.

Now, instead of
being her salvation, Harris had presented a whole set of new problems. Well,
Monte would have solutions for her problems. No doubt about it. Thing was,
after the smoke cleared, she’d be forced to deal with Monte. Wouldn’t be easy. Monte
was no Con.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

This
magnificent, unique, and eerie piece is the CUBAN QUEEN painted by Jack E. Guth
of Jerome AZ.

I first saw this haunting painting about eight years ago (2003)
in the Jerome Grand Hotel. I was stunned! This painting “spoke” to me on so
many different levels. My immediate reaction was to begin writing a short
fiction piece inspired by the “Queen.”

Last
week I dusted the cobwebs off the Queen, and posted Part 1 of the story on my
blog, Part 2 went up last Friday, and Part 3 went up today. If the painting
intrigues you, please check out the story, and see what the Queen inspired in
me.

Esmeralda stands in the middle of a dirt road; the immediate area
around her is bathed in an unforgiving, red glare. Uneasy, she turns to her
right and the glare melts into darkness as the road tunnels its way into a
thick, gray, forest. Esmeralda’s first inclination is to take refuge from the
harsh crimson light. Walking toward the canopy of trees, she instinctively
knows that she is headed back in the direction from which she came.

With every step her confidence soars, and she finds comfort in the
shade. Still, a twinge of paranoia, a thought of possible ill intentioned
pursuit, causes her to stop and check the road behind her. Once she ascertains
that she isn’t being followed, Esmeralda focuses on the far side of the
gleaming red zone that bisects the road. What she sees is an apparently normal,
sunny, rolling country-side dotted with trees and other vegetation.

Before her eyes the scarlet zone wavers and liquefies, assuming
solidity in the form of a bright yellow stucco wall. There is a wide gate of
ornamental wrought-iron. Both wings of the gate are open and inviting. Through
this portal Esmeralda can see people, laughing, happy people, moving, dancing
and, if her ears aren’t playing tricks, singing.

Esmeralda doesn’t have to think about it, she has already spent
her whole life traveling the dark road; she immediately strikes out for the
gate. No hesitation for Esmeralda, a last long, loping stride and she has
crossed the threshold. The light seems to triple in intensity, or perhaps her
vision is just that much more acute for all her senses feel magnified. She
feels young, strong, energized and joyful.

Taking advantage of her sharpened eyesight, Esmeralda surveys the
surroundings. She is standing in a large orchard, and there are tables
scattered as far as the eye can see. The tables are all occupied, and Esmeralda
can easily recognize the features of most of the revellers. Her father, her
mother, off to one side strumming his guitar her grandfather. Dancing to his
music is a beautiful child, hers and Nando’s daughter, Christina, not quite
five when pneumonia took her from them.

Smiling, Esmeralda moves toward them only to have a man step into
the walk-way, blocking her path. Eyes meeting hers, he says,“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Esmeralda stares at the man, a man so ordinary, so common in appearance,
he could be anyone of the hundreds of miners, cowboys, or laborers she and,
later in life, her girls had serviced. A man with the face of thousands, and he
stood between her and happiness.

Close to defeat, Esmeralda asks,“Are you the one?”

“The one?”

“My tormentor. The one that would keep me from happiness.”

The man’s laughter is soft, gentle,“No Esmeralda, I am here to welcome you.
This is where you belong.”

As he speaks the man takes Esmeralda’s right hand and they walk
into the huge orchard,“No one belongs
here, in this particular place, more than you do Esmeralda. In effect, this
spot is you.”

As they walk, though no one has spoken as yet, many of the people
smile in greeting. With every smile Esmeralda’s sense of belonging grows, the
power of her serenity expands. Yet something is nagging at her, and the moment
she resists the euphoria of her surroundings she knows what is wrong.

“Am I permitted questions?”

“Are you permitted questions? Esmeralda, this is your place, you
need not be ‘permitted’ anything. Do, or ask as you will.”

“Where is Nando? I don’t see him. Truly this cannot be my place
without Nando.”

As she spoke a cloud darkened the sun and the orchard clouded
over. Still holding her hand, the man walked Esmeralda back to the gate.
Pointing to the dark road through the forest, he said,“Nando is on that road.”

“I don’t understand why is he not here with me? Do you think this
could be a place of joy for me without Nando?”

“Listen to me child. Your Nando travels on that road as we speak.
He is destined to complete his journey, and this, dear Esmeralda, is indeed his
final destination. When you awaken in the morning Nando will be lying at your
side.”

Esmeralda searches the man’s face but can find no trace of guile.
Relieved, Esmeralda says,“Then I will
be truly happy, but why did we not arrive together?”

“Loved ones seldom do. The time spent in waiting is usually not
more than the blink of an eye when judged by your standard of time. It will be
a little longer for you.”

“Why”

Frowning, the man says,“Well Esmeralda, you cheated. Took a short-cut, and now you are here
early, hence you must wait a little longer. Nando still must complete his
journey.”Smiling again, he ads,“Perhaps if you cannot sleep tonight you
might want to spend the time with Christina, or any other, or even all, of your
loved ones.”

Esmeralda sighs, smiles and tilts her head back gazing at the,
once again, sunny sky,“No, I will
rest, and wait for Nando. Where can I lie down?”

“Come, I will show you.”

“Wait. What of Nando? In his time, how long will the journey take
him?”

“Years.”

“How many years?”

“That isn’t for you to know.”

“You said I could ask questions.”

“As many as you like, but I don’t have to give you all the
answers.”

“You don’t understand. Nando is like a child. I was wrong to leave
him.”

“You didn’t know your journey would end here.”

“I didn’t know, but I suspected. I made preparations, I didn’t
really believe I’d need them, but I made them. I was willing to take that
chance, I abandoned Nando. I don’t belong here.”

The man laughs,“Fortunately, mortals don’t make those decisions. Trust me, you belong
here.”

“What if I leave, take the road back? Will I be able to reunite
with Nando?

“Esmeralda, you have a knack for asking unanswerable questions.”

“Then I will find my own answer.”

When Esmeralda tries to remove her hand from the man’s grasp he
responds with a squeeze. Esmeralda is jangled by a electrifying jolt that goes
from her hand, through her shoulder, and reaches her jawbone before its energy
fizzles out. Staggered, she summons all her strength to yank her arm from the
hand of the man.

Esmeralda is through the gate and streaking like a cheetah. She
hasn’t even hit her full stride and she is already enveloped by the canopy of
trees. Suddenly, she can hear the man’s voice in her ear as if he were by her
side,“Stop, Esmeralda. Stop!”

Gritting her teeth, pumping her arms harder, lifting her knees
higher, she accelerates. Nothing, nothing will catch her. Abruptly her movement
is mired, her breath is cut off, and she is forced to a complete halt. When she
tries to move it’s as if her limbs were bound by heavy chains.

Standing in front of her, once again blocking her way, is the man.
Smiling, he says,“Blind
obedience is vastly over-rated. I have always favored courage, courage born of unselfishness. Because you have chosen
the harder path, you will be taking two gifts with you. You may go.”

#

Esmeralda opens her eyes to bright light. Nando has opened the
heavy wood shutters and sunlight fills the cantina. Straightening in her seat
she sees her cigar butts overflowing the ashtray, her empty rum mug lying on
its side. Contradicting this visible evidence of her debauchery is the clean
taste in her mouth, and the clearness of her head.

Looking across the room she watches as Nando works stacking crates
of canned goods. His movements, no longer labored and spastic, are quick, and
smoothly efficient. Esmeralda smiles as she hears him singing softly. It’s an
old tune, one that he used to sing to her before they made love, and
surprisingly, he remembers every word of every verse.

Standing, Esmeralda removes her Panama and begins to undue the complicated French-braid that holds her
long, thick, hair up. She revels in the strength, and dexterity of her fingers
as the braid becomes undone. She runs them through her mane as she drapes it
over her shoulders. Smiling, she holds her hands in front of her and flexes her
long, strong, fingers . . . all ten of them.

As she crosses the room, walking toward Nando, Esmeralda takes
great joy in knowing that even though a life has only one end, it can have many
new beginnings.

Friday, February 1, 2013

CUBAN QUEEN - - - - part 2

It
hadn’t taken Esmeralda a day to find her obeah-man. A bell had tinkled when she
passed through the door of the Harlem
store-front. The man, who came from behind a curtain to greet her, seemed unimposing
as he glanced at her, then stepped past her to lock the door and hang a
‘closed’ sign in the window.

Again
walking past her, the man motioned her to follow. Esmeralda found herself in a
small room lit by a single candle. A table and two chairs took up most of the
floor space. The man held out a chair for Esmeralda, and once she was seated he
leaned over her and blew out the candle. She could feel his breath on her
cheek, and the scent of him seemed to surround her along with the darkness.

When he
spoke his lips brushed her ear,“You
have no fear.”

It
wasn’t a question, but after considering for a moment Esmeralda replied,
“None.”

Electric
lights came on to reveal her host, now seated across the table.“Good. You are a serious person.”Smiling, the man continued,“We don’t need any false theatrics, and I
like to see who I’m dealing with. Give me your hand.”

Holding
her maimed hand, the man’s eyes look down at it.“Look at our skin. You think of your skin as
black, but next to mine, hah! I am from Cat Cay, black! You, you are Cuban.”

“I came
from Puerto Rico.”

Raising
her hand, the ruined edge to his lips, the man hisses,“Child, you can’t lie to me, not about the
small things, certainly not about significant ones, for I am obeah.”

“Forgive
me, I meant no disrespect. Yes, I came from Cuba. I was
fourteen, I came in a small boat that sank. I swam the last two miles to shore.
When I landed I had not one peso, only the rags on my body. I needed no help
then, or in the time since. Until now. Now I need help, your help. Let me tell
you what I require.”

“Do not
tell me what I already know. You need
justice, but you want revenge. The
price of justice is high, but the price you will pay for revenge is the highest
of all. Are you willing to pay the price?”

“I have
money, not much, but I can get more.”

“I
don’t speak of money, gold, jewels, things.
I’ll ask you again, are you willing to pay the price?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?
You haven’t asked what the price might be.”

Glaring
at the obeah-man through slitted eyes, Esmeralda squeezes his hands with all of
the considerable strength in her deformed hand and snarls,“I’m willing to pay the price, whatever it may
be.”

Smiling
the man says,“Good, child. You may
call me Batiste.”

As Esmeralda relates the details of her situation Batiste busies
himself by, moving around the perimeter of the room, pulling items from an
intricate network of shelves and drawers lining the walls. He places the small
objects into a soft leather pouch the size of a lemon. Occasionally he
interrupts with a question.

“This man, the one of power, he is an islander, no?”

Esmeralda replied,“No, he
is said to be a Sicilian.”

“Ah, yes, yes. As I said, child, an islander. Sicily is an
island girl, an island where the spirits are as recognized, respected, and
feared as they are on your Cuba or my Cat. The spirits may be known by different names, in
different places, but they are known none the less. If this man was born on the
island of Sicily he will understand.”

“He must have been. The Siciliano’s English is even more broken
than mine.”

They both laugh when Batiste says,“If that is the case, then our man is most
certainly island born.”

A few more items and Batiste’s little package is complete. He
pulls tight the drawstrings, and, after knotting them, hands the pouch to
Esmeralda. After gently kneading the sack she says,“This skin is very soft, nicely tanned. What
did it come from?”

His face blank, the obeah-man says,“That is only one of many things you do not
need to know. Something you DO need to know, do not open the bag, do not view
what is inside. To do so would be disastrous. Heed me well.”

Staring at the pouch Esmeralda asks, “What do I do with it?”

“Give it to the Siciliano.”

“And?”

“Speak these words . . . ‘I ask only for that which is rightfully
mine.’”

“That’s all?”

Batiste grins,“Well,
after you speak, you might slowly make the sign of the cross in front of his
face. Of course, you should use your maimed hand for this.”

“That will strengthen the spell?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Your deformity will be a reminder to him of how brittle we all
are in the face of the spirits. Now, I begin to tire of your questions. You
either believe, or you don’t believe. If you don’t, then you have wasted both
your time, and mine.”

“Forgive me. I believe, now more than ever, but please, one more
question.”

Batiste nods and Esmeralda says,“I believe that your magic will enable Nando and I receive what he
fought and bled for. But, what of our vengeance on those who took from us that
which cannot be replaced? Isn’t there more to be done, special spells of some
sort, to bring about their destruction?”

“Ah, you mean dolls? Dolls made with hanks of their hair, and
fingernail clippings? Dolls to stick pins in, and perhaps to set afire?”

“Yes. Yes!”

“Child, meet my eyes. I will allow you to look inside for a
moment. Now look. Do you feel my power?”

Speechless, Esmeralda can only nod. Batiste continues,“This man, this Siciliano, he will know. He
will feel the power, and he will know the grave danger he is in. Do you think
he will feel kindly toward those who placed him in such peril? He will repay
you, and your man, the money that is rightfully yours. He will also repay those
who caused him to be cursed. I assure you girl, the way the Siciliano will deal
with these men will more than quench your thirst for vengeance.”

The obeah-man hadn’t exaggerated his power, nor that of his magic.
Esmeralda and Nando, who carried two heavy satchels filled with currency, were
escorted to Grand Central Station by two of the Sicilian’s most trusted men. By
the time their train pulled into Chicago, the papers
were all flying banner headlines about the mob related killings that had shaken
the East Coast fight game to its core.

#

Watching the smoke twisting upward, expanding, glowing, taking on
the red of the bar lights, and finally dissipating into the shadows of the
rafters, Esmeralda knows the time has come. She butts out her cigarro, and then
unscrews the bottom of the silver vial from its cap. Not hesitating, she dumps
the vial’s contents into her rum, and stirs the concoction with her finger.

Three fiery gulps and the mix is gone, down her gullet and
settling in the pit of her stomach, radiating a pleasant warmth. Lighting her
last cigar, and uncrossing, then re-crossing her legs, Esmeralda slumps down in
her chair and remembers her final visit to the obeah-man.

#

Finding a cab at LaGuardia had been easy. Finding one that would
take her to Harlem was another story, until Esmeralda decided to approach only black
cabbies. The day was cold, bleak, and ugly. The snow covering the grass and
trees lining the Parkway was pretty, no different from the white blanket that
had coated Cleopatra Hill early that morning when she left the mountain. Once
she crossed the bridge into Manhattan, the snow became a filthy gray slush that colored the entire city
to match the dismal sky.

It seemed to Esmeralda that it was the same bell that tinkled,
announcing her entrance to the store. The store itself hadn’t changed a bit
over the years, nor had the man who stepped out of the rear, walked past her to
lock the door and hang the ‘closed’ sign, just as he had decades ago. Of course
Esmeralda knew this wasn’t Batiste, perhaps a brother, but most likely it was
his son.

After following the man into the rear of the store, she once again
finds herself, seated, and facing him across a table. Esmeralda says,“I would speak with your father.”

The man smiles,“Ah, my
father. While it would be possible for you to do so, the process involved is a
difficult one, and totally unnecessary. You will deal with me.”

“I think not. Your father helped me once, now it is his help I
seek again.”

“No my Cubanita, it was I, Batiste, who helped you then, and I,
Batiste, shall help you now.”

“If you are, indeed, Batiste, the years have treated you well.”

“Batiste I am, and girl, the centuries have treated me well. Now,
tell me what you

“Some things never change, and they never will. Now child, the
flight.”

“I was not impressed. A fast, stupid way to cross the country,
meant for stupid people. If men were intended to fly they would have wings.”

Taking Esmeralda’s hand, Batiste says,“Men were destined to fly, girl, but only a
few. These few, they don’t need foul smelling, roaring monsters of tin to soar,
any more than they require baubles to be wealthy.”

“These are things I know nothing about. I do know that when I
return, to my home, to my man, to my business, I will take the train. I will
rest. I will eat. I will drink, smoke, and look at the countryside and see what
I can remember of earlier trips and bygone days. I am in no hurry.”

Batiste shakes his head,“Now you are in no hurry, but back then, you burnt through your life as
if it were gunpowder.”

“We all make mistakes in our youth. Some of us more than others. I
am, as you know, one who has made more than my share. Certain mistakes have
taken a heavy toll on me, made me weary before my time. Weary and fearful.”

“What is it you fear?”

“I have, with your help, taken vengeance. Vengeance born of
hatred, and extracted in a terrible fashion.”

“True”

“I now believe this act of revenge to be my greatest mistake.”

“Do you blame me?”

“Of course not. I made a choice, I agreed to pay a price. You
helped me at my request, and warned me of a retribution.”

Esmeralda can read nothing in Batiste’s expression when he
says,“And now you whish to
renegotiate, perhaps even to renege?”

Esmeralda’s eyes flash,“I
am tired, not weak. I stand ready to reap what I have sown. My life has not
been as I had hoped, and it is only recently that I realized that the fault is
mine.”

“Have you not made your conquests, achieved your goals?”

Esmeralda’s laugh is bitter,“Every last one.”

“Yet you find the result disappointing. Why is that child?”

“Conquest is the drug of those made weak by their vanity. As for
my goals, they were those of a greedy child.”

Batiste wrinkles his brow,“Perhaps it isn’t fair for the powerful and mature woman to take on the
debt of the weak, greedy child. And yet, these kind of debts must always be
resolved. Which of course, is why you are here.”

“Yes, here to square things, now. It is the waiting, decades of
it, that I can no longer bear. I would end it now, today, whatever the payment
may be.”

“What if I told you that the waiting is part of the payment.”

Esmeralda slams her fist on the table and begins to speak in a
harsh, guttural tone,“I have waited .
. . .”

She stops, draws a deep breath, and then continues in a normal
voice,“Forgive me Batiste. If I must
wait, then wait I shall, for eons if necessary.”

“Arrogance always extracts a tariff all its own. But, I see by
your control, you have learned something about that. Good. Perhaps much, if not
all, of your debt has been resolved.”

“How so?”

“There are other worlds where pain is currency, and suffering is
gold. In some matters pain offers absolution for some of the mistakes it drives
us to. If pain and suffering are the gold of other universes, then love and
devotion are their diamonds.”

“Pain has been a life long companion, but not only to me. It would
appear to be a credential for membership in the human race. If pain offers
absolution we must all be nearing sainthood.”

Batiste laughs,“It isn’t
the pain itself that holds absolution, but rather one’s reaction to it.”

“Batiste, you are familiar with how I reacted to the most painful
moment in my life. I sought you out for your powers as an obeah. I had you put
those powers to use in the destruction of half a dozen men. Does this type of
reaction qualify me for absolution?”

“I am not the judge of these things, but remember, pain isn’t the
only currency, love and loyalty count for more.”

“My loyalty has always been to myself. Love? I once loved a
beautiful boy called Nando. The boy was growing, changing into a magnificent
man, even as I was becoming a woman. Nando the man was stunted, turned into a
perpetual child, by the greed of a few animals.”

“So, Esmeralda, let us review your greatest sin. You came to me in
your time of pain and fury. Together we brought the existence of a group of
monsters to the attention of a greater monster, who consequently destroyed
them. Your lack of loyalty? Lie to yourself, if you must, but do not lie to me.
You have kept Nando by your side all these many years. You have cared for the
child, and you still love what remains of the man. Your tears betray you.”

“Does that mean that my debt has been paid in full?”

“As I said, I am not the judge of these things. I will tell you
this, there are other worlds, and there are judgments for us all when we reach
them. I can help you reach these worlds, but I can not say what may await you
when you arrive.”

“Are you speaking of heaven and hell?”

“The unknown Esmeralda, heaven, hell, or perhaps something totally
incomprehensible to us. Or possibly simply a great vacuum, a void.”

“You said you could help me to reach these worlds, can you help me
to return?”

“Do not negotiate with me girl. I can only arrange your passage, one
way. Whatever transpires when you reach your destination has nothing to do with
me. I have told you all that I can. Let me give you something before you leave.
You needn’t decide now, in fact weigh your decision carefully as it will be
final.”

When the door to Batiste’s shop closed behind her Esmeralda wore
the silver chain that the obeah-man had just placed around her neck. While the
chain itself had a certain warmth to it, the vial it bore was cold, a frigid
sliver of ice snaking it’s way between her breasts.

#

Even as Esmeralda screwed the vial back into its cap her eyelids
had become excruciatingly heavy. Forcing them up she tried to turn her head, it
was hard, too hard. As her chin settled on her chest, her lids again began to
droop. Straining for a glimpse of Nando, Esmeralda can see only the red glow of
the bar lights.

#

The third, and final, part of CUBAN QUEEN will be posted on Tues 2 / 5.